The Last Mile
by alabaster514
Summary: My rug is white


The Last Mile

Five days until you walk through the unseen world, five days until the deafening drums from behind the veil find you, five days until Zalgo lies beside you, five days until oblivion drowns you. Yet your evil nature continues to grow and fester in the darkness casted over a great dark plain that lies in the shadow of a dead god.

Blood was shed and a mother was raped and left without a child while a brother lives in prideful guilt. The words that were spoken hit harder than stones, and soon those stones did find him. The pride that you gained was all for not, for once you dreamed of walls of gold, until you turned your dreams to stone. You lie asleep still believing that you are a victim of a system that lies under the shadow of a dead god.

Four days until you walk the hall, and every dream you have is filled with the lustful things from a long since passed ignorant youth, you embezzle yourself deep into these false fantasies, but as you do, the drumming creeps upon unseen horizons. You crawl deeper trying to forget. Your mind burst into flame "madness leave, for I shall fill no belly!" Your mind burns with anger, as you begin to curse and blame a god you do not believe. All the while as Zalgo crawls across the unseen plain writhing towards you through a world darkened under the shadow of a dead god.

Three days until you face the rope, and you begin to worry, you start to hear a terrible howling accompany the beating drums. You barley see the thing, Zalgo, on the horizon. It is hollering and gnawing with seven mouths, the clouds grow dark and move fast towards you, they cover the land bellow, shading the charging beast that sprints ever so fast towards you. The beast's footfalls beat the ground below the creating the sounds of drums. You try to turn away, but you can't, you beg to the sky for a second chance, but it does not hear you. You stand there idle, pleading out to the terrible thing across the way to slow down, but it does not pay reverence to your words. You continue to scream silently under the shadow of a dead god.

Two days until the innocent weeping turns to spite, and you still stand there, awaiting the jaws of the beast. The food you eat does not stay, and the water you drink does not quench your thirst. You grip the bars, refusing to turn around to face the thing. The howling is unbearable, and the foot falls sound like thunder, you forsake the burden of the white man. And you lay there naked, crying under the shadow of a dead god.

One day until the maws of Zalgo find you. You turn to face the thing. You could not describe it if you had to, it was madness, the index of all ignorance and incoherence, it had many arms, and on those arms were many hands, each hand contorting violently. The seven mouths were licking their lips as the howling became clear, everyone hears something different when they listen to the words from the great spawn of the nether most confusion. But as it spoke you did not listen, for all the words sounded the same. The drumming footfalls stopped and the horror stood there, awaiting its meal it clawed at the veil and watched as your rope was prepared under the shadow of a dead god.

The last mile. You stood up as your cage was opened, terrible blue and black demons grabbed you by the arms and drag you, as the floor below burns your feet. The demons mock you with their silence as they drag you across the threshold. They place a bag a top your head and tie rope around your throat. They leave after this as they themselves fear the beast. The breath of the thing in front of you smells of blood and ash, it is waiting for you to cross the veil. You tighten your grip and hold your breath. The floor below you gives way and you fall from your body. A tendril grabs you lifts you above its mouth, it screams aloud and releases its grip. You fall into oblivion.

And so the thing from behind the wall turns towards the west, and begins to charge, its footfalls sound like thunder, its words speak of madness, and its journey across the unseen plain shall beckon a storm, a storm of five days brewing. The thing will live forever, and so will the sin that calls it. Against the current we will try to fly from the hungry beast, but ever fruitless, we shall fall prey. Thus is the way for those who live and die, under the shadow of a dead god.


End file.
